


The Fall Eventually Leads to Winter

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Loss, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Post Reichenbach, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Greg Lestrade was an easy man to get along with, to live with. An easy man to love. Mycroft knows he himself was never easy. He should have known better than to take advantage of Greg's trust. He shouldn't have lied.</em>
  <br/>
  <b>Warning: less than 1% of my fics are actually sad. This one is. Sorry.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall Eventually Leads to Winter

An appropriately ugly winter rain beat down on Mycroft's umbrella. The boxwoods and brick walls were lit in a harsh yellow by the car's headlights. Gasoline fumes filled his nostrils. He couldn't be bothered to move from the puddle that was welling up around his feet, so ice-cold water seeped into the thin soles of his leather shoes, sending a chill through his limbs, into his core.

 

Mycroft was standing on the polished grey stone steps in front of his house, watching Greg load the last of five nondescript brown cardboard boxes into his car. Boxes containing the few practical possessions the detective had brought with him when he had finally agreed to move in three months ago. Agreed to make their union both a little more official and more convenient for Mycroft.

 

The D.I. was always the one making the compromises, wasn't he? Usually without complaint or recriminations. But the move into the posh, no-shoes-on-the-Persians London home had not been easy. Mycroft remembered the months of persuasion and pressure he'd exerted to lure Greg away from his own little flat, furnished in cheap and cheerful Scandinavian rectangles. Greg had laughed and rolled his eyes when Mycroft claimed allergies to not only Lestrade's bookcases, but his bed sheets and most of the contents of his refrigerator as well. But he'd given up his flat in the end.

 

And so Mycroft gradually, quietly took away the outward signs of Greg Lestrade's independence, but the detective seemed to adjust and find some comfort in the life they were building together. Comfort in the companionship of a man who admired and adored him and made him laugh as often as Sherlock had made him curse. A man who helped Greg survive the agony of Sherlock's death and helped relieve the constant dull ache that persisted even two years later.

 

But now, standing there in the December rain, Mycroft realized he'd always assumed there was no limit to the compromising. No limit to Greg's acquiescing to Mycroft's needs, expectations, and demands. Mycroft had also assumed he always knew what was best for Greg, and that was always what was best for Mycroft. But that was foolish, wasn't it? Shortsighted. He'd observed that Greg had a breaking point with Sherlock on more than one occasion. Why wouldn't he have a breaking point with Mycroft too?

 

At this moment, searching in vain for a calm center within himself, struggling to swallow the anguish that seemed to be literally choking him, he knew he would exchange everything--material wealth and the intangibles of power, prestige, and even his dubious honor--he'd exchange it all for the ability to go back in time and make a different choice. He would have told Greg that Sherlock was alive, would have insisted that Greg and John be included in the plans to find Moran. If only he'd done that, Sherlock would have had allies. Moran probably could have been found faster, and Sherlock might have been home so much more quickly.

 

Instead, he'd watched Greg stripped of the things he truly valued--his work, his good name at the Met, his integrity. Watched him set up shop as a private detective, skulking around after cheating spouses, like his own ex-wife. Watched him come home every day defeated, lost.

And then John had withdrawn from the world. He'd lived almost every hour of every day at the A & E, unwilling or unable to speak to any of his old friends, save Mrs. Hudson, who had demanded he see her as a physician at least, or she'd refuse to take any of her meds, and he didn't want that on his head, did he?

 

Mycroft had never seen his own limitations, his human weakness laid out so stark and clear before him. He had no magic spells and no time machine. So he stood in the shadows and watched his happiness, his conscience, his life drive away.

 

* * * * *

 

Mycroft carefully arranged a plate, knife, fork, spoon, and cup on the polished marble counter.

He had decided to lock away all _wants_ and _needs_ for the foreseeable future. He would focus only on _shoulds_ \--anything he deemed a clear responsibility to the realm or to his staff. Meeting these responsibilities would steady him, provide a neat list of duties accomplished. He would perhaps find a purpose in waking up, in continuing to inhale and exhale. Although, in truth, everything--including breathing--felt rather pointless, rather too much effort right now.

He turned on two burners. Filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Dropped a half dollop of butter into a pan and cracked two eggs. He stood back, waiting for the kettle to whistle and the eggs to turn defiantly cheerful white and yellow.

His mobile buzzed. Anthea was calling. He pressed "ignore." If he thumbed "answer" he feared he might unleash a flood of words and feelings that would drown the poor girl and himself. He sometimes wished he could explain to someone that he was raw and bleeding inside. That he didn't know how to live with the person he'd become. That he didn't know how to walk out of his home and into the world carrying the guilt and regret.

But these burdens were his alone to carry, not Anthea's. He considered briefly whether he had any clean and simple means available for ending the almost unbearable pain. But no. That would be cowardly. Selfish. It would inflict even more wounds on Greg, wouldn't it?

 

And now that Sherlock had returned, perhaps he and Greg and John could sort themselves out. Of course they could. Sherlock was bound to get himself thoroughly cleared and become a media darling again.  And he'd bring Greg and John along on his considerable coattails as before. Perhaps Greg would even be reinstated at the Met.

The thought of the glorious, happy reunion that was probably still going on at Baker Street right now made Mycroft smile as he sprinkled a bit of salt on the eggs.

He'd had that message yesterday from Molly inviting him to join the celebrations. Silly girl. She didn't understand, did she? Of course they'd not hold her accountable for the pain and lies. She'd be all right, and that was as it should be.

But John and Greg wouldn't forgive Mycroft. Mycroft would  be accountable, and that was as it should be too.

 

He touched the eggs lightly with a fork. Just right. Turned off the stove. Poured hot water over the dark leaves in the blue china teapot. How ridiculous--a square teapot. He and Greg had bought it at the Museum of Modern Art on their holiday in New York. Mycroft had scoffed, but Greg had liked the whimsical cube shape and vibrant sapphire colour, so they'd had it wrapped and shipped, along with four absurd square teacups. Mycroft felt his heart racing and nausea rising in his throat as he wondered whether he might call to ask Greg whether he'd like to have the souvenir--whether this might be an excuse to hear his voice again--if only on a terse answering machine message. But no. That was a _want_. Not a _should_.

He should eat. He should read the five newspapers stacked crisp and ready on the table in the foyer. And he should call Anthea.

 

"Hello, Anthea--you called earlier?"

"Yes, sir. I just wanted to check in. I'm worried about you. I haven't heard from you in forty-eight hours, and . . . well, that's unusual. Are you all right?"

Mycroft paused to wipe away the tears flowing hot down his cheeks. He knew he ought to hang up, but although he couldn't bring himself to speak, there was something comforting about knowing she was listening. She waited patiently, silently on the line for ten minutes, until finally he spoke again.

"Anthea, please email a list of action items for today. I should very much like to tick as many as possible off the list. And send the car around in half an hour. I'm just finishing breakfast."

Mycroft left a note for the cleaner before carefully smoothing his waistcoat and tapping his umbrella on the polished floor a few times, then walking out to meet his driver.

 

_Good day Maria,_

_Fresh sheets in the master bedroom. Please toss away any items on the left bedside table and the green toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom. Also--please dispose of the blue teapot and cups in the kitchen. Bin or charity shop--or you may take them for yourself._

_Many thanks and kind regards,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

 


End file.
